Brothers
by macgyvershe
Summary: one shot. Mycroft dies and Sherlock knows he has a brother.


Brothers

Pain was something you worked through. Some people tried to avoid it, to obliterate it, some tried like hell to embrace it, but it was important that you accepted it, let it flow through you and made sure you didn't let it catch somewhere on your soul as it did.

John knew a great deal about pain. He'd been traumatized in the war. He'd come back home with most of his bits intact, but his soul had caught tiny fragments of pain that clung to him and tore at him, making him feel ragged and broken.

Then fate had sent him Sherlock; a man of infinite intellect, of unsurpassed intuition, a smart arse with a crooked smile and the ability to twiddle a Glock as well as his violin bow. John had taken the hand of this self proclaimed socio-path and never looked back.

Now amidst the ruin of lives shattered, was Sherlock in pain? His brother Mycroft had died. Not in a governmental charade. Why he'd been brokering deals with the North Koreans for-gods-sake and then crossing a busy street, he'd fallen hitting his temple on the concrete, killing him instantly.

Sherlock was quiet. No sad violin music. He ate little. Looked paler than he ever had. He had no living family now, but he didn't look bereft he looked surprisingly calm. He still had John.

"Sherlock, do we need to talk about the funeral arrangements." John was trying to coax him into thought or possibly action.

"All of his last wishes are detailed in his legal will, John. His lawyer will take care of everything. No need for us to get mired in the grimy details."

"Sherlock, he was your older brother, don't you care at all?"

"Clearly, I do not, John."

"What the hell did he do to you that you hold such animosity?" John couldn't understand Sherlock's behavior.

"That is history, John and it will serve no purpose to go back there now. Suffice it to say that it is all ended now; the ghost of the past will not find a place in my heart."

"Will you be attending the funeral at least?" John was going to make him if he wasn't.

"If you want me to, I shall. I will not be speaking. There will be plenty of bureaucrats' there to do that."

There were many people at Mycroft's funeral. John didn't know one of them. Sherlock was not there mentally. John finally pushed him into their rental car and drove them home. In their flat John took point.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, Sherlock? You know you can talk to me."

Sherlock stood staring out the window. He turned slowly and went to his chair and sat. He took a deep breath as John waited patiently.

"John," Sherlock looked directly into John's eyes.

John saw the heavy frost melt from Sherlock's mask. His face relaxed into the man the John knew.

"My brother was always better than I in everything that he attempted, but only by a small margin. He was always the social butterfly; status, tradition, position, he was mainstream and always looking to gain more and more power all his life. I was an embarrassment to him with my wild ways, my unruly manners and my anti-social behavior. I was constantly told to toe the line; to live up to standards, to behave. I refused. I defied. I was willful. I was myself. For this I was constantly derided, belittled, abused and dishonored. My parents looked the other way, he was the golden boy, unable to do wrong. I felt sorry for him at first, then anger, finally animosity that seethed and destroyed whatever love I might have felt for him."

John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "My god, Sherlock, I had no idea it was so terrible; that he could have been so cruel to you. I know now why you couldn't be bothered with him anymore."

"You, John, you are more a brother to me than he ever was. You have offered up you life for me. You have watched me die and made me want to live again, just to see you smile once more. You have made my life better, given me cause to reflect upon what I am and where I want to go. I am a better man because you are in my life."

"John, if I were to weep at a loss; it would be if I lost you."

John was moved visibly. He stood, stepped over to Sherlock, pulled him up off his chair and hugged him tightly. Both of them closed their eyes against a glitter of tears.

"Okay then," John pulled them apart, cleared his throat as he sat Sherlock back down. "We are going to have four fingers of whiskey and pretend that the sky is blue and that nothing else matters."

As John got the whiskey, Sherlock murmured.

"To what was lost and what's been found, the devil take the hindmost." He was glad to let go of what had been.


End file.
